‘You choose the colour, sir,’ I said.
He smiled indulgently as he rifled through the tray of silks.
‘This one matches your eyes.’ It was a soft, mossy green. All evening I wound it about my fingers, stroking its shiny satin.
Then the coxcomb went and spoiled it by asking, ‘Biddy, did you take a look into my sister’s chamber? You did promise.’
Here we go, I thought, and said very meekly, ‘I never precisely promised, sir.’
‘Well, did you discover anything?’
I knew the sassafras oil was not a matter I could speak of.
‘No, sir.’
He looked at me steadily, and I stared back, eyes wide.
‘So why is my sister going to Italy?’
That at least needed no pretence.
‘I did hear her say she were going to Italy for her health.’
He shook his head impatiently.
‘She seems healthy enough to me. She was off to her perfumier or somewhere tonight. Took the carriage, too. No, there’s nothing ailing my sister.’
* * *
The thunder of firecrackers interrupted us, and we moved to the riverbank. As we lingered he slipped his arm around my waist and I made no move to stop him. With a shivering bang a shower of fireworks lit the sky, bleaching the city like a painting on a stage. We leaned on the balustrade, breathing the cold winter air that tasted of gunpowder. Then the skies lit again with silver stars dropping slowly to earth.
‘I’ll never forget this night in all my life,’ I said, speaking softly into his ear.
* * *
From the moment the liveried doorman opened the door of the Maison de Santé I was in a cook’s heaven. The trouble was, Mr Kitt was not right pleased when he saw where I’d led him.
‘Good God, it’s not one of those ridiculous health places is it?’ He surveyed the powder-faced men and languishing women seated at tables. A hostess in a gown of blue silk swept us to a candlelit corner. A moment later she had left us staring at a large card written in French.
‘It’s the top fashion,’ I told him fiercely, studying the list of refined French dishes on my card. ‘And the most forward cooking you will find in Paris. Please, it will be like a dream to taste it. Thank you, sir,’ I added quickly.
The lady returned and addressed Mr Kitt most genteelly. ‘Monsieur, would you permit me to tell you a little about my carte de menu? In my profession as restauratrice I may be permitted to judge my clientele.’ She set her powdered head on one side and assessed him with two penetrating pale blue eyes. ‘I think – often, you have little appetite for anything save a restorative eau de vie. You are as sensitive as a duke, but those about you, ah,’ at this she shrugged prettily, ‘wish you to attend to coarser matters. So my prescription to you is a nourishing health supper to soothe your overtaxed physiognomy.’
In the face of this charming analysis Kitt could only agree.
‘Do you honestly believe all that hogwash?’ he asked, when we were alone again. I took a long look at the wealthy diners, the lavish gold clock, and heavy silver cutlery.
‘I think she’s a mighty clever woman, meself.’
* * *
After downing half a bottle of brandy, even Mr Kitt reluctantly admired the chandeliers of glass fruits, and wondrous mirrors that stretched from ceiling to floor. When the dishes arrived, he pronounced the delicate Potage de Santé to be no better than dishwater, though I could taste mushroom and thyme in the gleaming broth. To him, the delicate portions of pigeon and fish were criminally small, but I barely listened, savouring every tender mouthful.
As we tackled a restorative of orange flower cream I gazed at the other elegant diners; the ladies chattering and fluttering fans, the gentlemen making easy conversation. ‘To be one of them, it would be like living in fairyland.’
‘It is only money that buys them an elegant appearance, Biddy.’
Mr Kitt’s mouth formed a pretty sulk as he reached for the brandy. ‘You are worth a dozen of any of them.’
‘I fear you’ve pulled too hard on the bottle, sir,’ I laughed. ‘It’s me, Biddy Leigh you are talking to. Oh sir, try these Biscuits Palace Royal. They are marvels.’
His dark eyes were bleary, but still sensible.
‘No, Biddy. Look at you tonight.’ I searched for mockery in his expression but found none. ‘You are pretty, you have good sense. The damn shame is, in a better world you could rescue me.’
‘Rescue you from what, sir?’
He laughed sourly. ‘It doesn’t matter. But truly, you are good and practical as well as pretty.’
‘Come off it, sir. Soon you’ll marry some rich Town-Miss and never even notice the likes of me again.’
‘That’s the trouble, Biddy. Everyone I know trades happiness for cash. Most people don’t even know what love is.’
‘And you do, sir?’ I was teasing him, for I reckoned he had only the daftest schoolboy notions in his head.
He smiled a twisted smile. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure my uncle has plans for me, too.’
‘Can you not make your own way in life, sir?’ I asked gently.
He stared mournfully into his glass. ‘I’ve never settled to anything. Even Carinna has more learning than I. And I’m not brave, Biddy. I can’t win against my uncle. Damn it, I try to put on a careless appearance, but all is confusion.’ Then he laughed sadly. ‘You must think me an odd sort of fellow.’
I shrugged. ‘Aye well, everyone thinks I am an odd ’un too.’
‘There we are then,’ he said, raising his glass with a tight smile. ‘To us two “odd ’uns” thrown together in this bewitching city.’
I raised my glass. I did like him too, that was the rub. He looked back at me fondly.
‘’Tis a sad fact,’ he added. ‘Forget all the flimflam. This is the best night I’ve had in a very long time.’
I took a sip of brandy and felt a burn behind my eyes. ‘’Tis for me too, sir. Best in my whole life, I reckon.’
* * *
Once we had left Paris and were rollicking along the roads of France I couldn’t help but dream of handsome Kitt Tyrone. And it were not just that bonny man that haunted my dreams, but the visit to that wondrous restaurant. After Mr Kitt had finally slumped across the table in a drunken stew, I talked long and earnestly with that clever lady restauratrice. The secrets she shared were like gold to me. I learned that food was not mere food, if that makes sense. ‘They pay for all of this,’ she said, with a gesture of her graceful hand that jangled with cameo bracelets, towards the gilded room, the private tables, the diners who toyed with silver forks. The food had to be perfect, of course, but food might be perfect and still slip down gutter alley for a ha’penny. The idea of a thing is what makes it an item of fashion. I would never forget that lesson.
As for the gentleman, I knew he was a gamester and a dreamer. But in the private chambers of my heart I did like Kitt Tyrone. That moment in the restaurant often returned to me, when we had talked with no restraint. He was naught but a lonely mixed-up boy beneath all his citified manners. I believe that for a spell our two souls did chime with each other, not as servant and gentleman but as plain man and woman.
And it cheered me to know that Kitt Tyrone had chased Jem clean out of my heart. Why, Teg was welcome to the idle lummocks. And to my satisfaction I had escaped with my commodity intact. Though Lord knows there was a spell when I could have ravished my mistress’s handsome brother and unbuttoned his clothes from his lily-white body. We had been all alone in the swaying darkness of the hackney and he asleep, his lashes like dark feathers and his lips just parted and wet. As I leaned across his senseless body I smelled spirits and pomade mixed with the tang of hidden flesh. His lips were full and slack and when I lowered my lips to his, he tasted of brandy and baby’s sweet skin. For a terrible moment he roused himself, returning my kiss with hungry passion. Alarmed, I pulled away and happily, he slept on. Oh, I thought that kiss I stole the sweetest morsel I ever tasted
.
‘Daydreaming again?’ My mistress’s voice made me jump.
‘Non, non, ma maîtresse,’ I said quickly, for she found my speaking French less offensive than my northern talk. And besides, it rattled Jesmire to hear me speak the lingo.
‘Bon, Biddy. Well done. And in Italian?’ That was her latest notion, to teach me Italian, which even I could comprehend was not so different from French.
‘No, no, signora,’ I said smartly. She cast me a preening look and said, ‘But still you know nothing of manners. Now let us fancy you were to visit a gentleman. What would you say?’
God’s gripes, had she found me out with Mr Kitt? I looked into her powdered face, that was tired and swollen. Truly, she had a lumpen look to her that even the grandest silks and hoops could not disguise.
‘I should never presume, Me Lady,’ I gabbled.
‘In the devil’s name, I only ask that you fancy it,’ she complained. ‘Do you have no imagination, Biddy? Is it true you menials think only of kettles and pots?’
‘No it is not, Me Lady,’ I snapped. ‘Ma maîtresse, sorry. Give me a notion of what to say, like.’
‘When you arrive in the place of a person of rank you must greet him politely. You might say, “Good afternoon, Your Excellency. I pray you are well.” Dear me, I suppose we must use the old method.’ She pulled out her little book and scribbled it down. I read it aloud and it sounded a great deal better.
‘Now what might you say if he invited you to dine with him?’
‘What’s cooking?’ I asked hopefully. She rolled her eyes, and Jesmire snorted.
‘You are a tiresome creature,’ Her Ladyship scolded. ‘Say it properly.’
‘Your Excellency,’ I sighed in a false and lofty voice, ‘that is most vastly kind of you.’
I expected my mistress to howl with cruel laughter, but she clapped her hands in delight. ‘So you can do it, you minx.’
As if I couldn’t if I wanted to!
‘And you know you must wait to be seated?’ she asked.
‘I seen it every day.’
‘And raise your glass to every toast with a gentle nod?’
‘Yes, Me Lady.’
‘And to wait until each dish is offered?’
I blew out loudly through my lower lip. ‘Aye, if I’ve not died of hunger yet.’
‘Biddy.’ She wagged her finger. ‘Behave yourself.’ But I could see she was buttoning a splutter of laughter.
Just then Mr Pars’ face suddenly loomed in at us from the window. We had both been so keen on our practice that no one had noticed the carriage come to a halt.
‘My Lady. Is this girl misbehaving?’ he barked.
‘It’s our little game,’ said my mistress in a blink of an eye.
‘I believe,’ said he, eyeing me like it was all my wicked fault, ‘the weather is good enough for Biddy to sit outside with the driver.’ And he doffed his hat to my lady. ‘So you needn’t be bothered by her impertinence.’
‘No,’ said she smartly. ‘Biddy stays here. She amuses me.’
Mr Pars glowered at her like a red hot coal. ‘I could lend you the most interesting guide books if it’s amusement you—’
‘Out of my way.’ My mistress was standing ready at the step. For a moment Mr Pars didn’t move, only stared at her with his hately look. Then he marched away fast and we all got down at our new lodgings.
XXI
Lyons
Being St Paulstide, January 1773
Biddy Leigh, her journal
* * *
Burned Toast Tea
Take as much dry crust of bread as the top of a penny loaf and set before the fire until the crust is burned cinder black. Pour over boiling water and soak until enough then strain into a sieve and mash it down. Drink while it is hot; if the first cup does not give relief drink another.
Biddy Leigh, a most worthy remedy for sickness of the stomach
* * *
There was a new smell in the air at Lyons, of sun-baked southern stuffs, of strong red vinegar, and spikes of rosemary. It was a good thing too, for some of the streets were stinking warrens, and the beggars near mithered me to death. The beggary was not for want of charity, for the place was a mass of popish churches and convents, ringing out their bells every quarter-hour. Yet thank my stars, our new lodgings were mighty grand, with glass windows, and our linen scented with orange blossom.
It was good that we were comfortably lodged for my lady had begun to complain more than ever as we approached Lyons. I heard Mr Pars scoff at what he called her posturing, but I judged her from what she ate, and even the sugariest rum baba that she had once devoured no longer tempted her. One morning, when only me and my lady were alone in our lodgings, she jangled her bell so hard that I cursed Jesmire for being away and ran to her chamber door. I found her slumped in her bed and saw at once she was truly sick. Once I was right close up, the strangest sight met my eyes, for her mouth was stained such a nasty black colour I feared she’d caught some terrible French plague.
‘My Lady!’ I cried, helping her sit upright. Then I noticed the plate at her bedside on which stood crumbs of shining black coal.
‘Let me clean you up,’ I said, trying to keep the astonishment out of my voice.
She was as meek as a lamb while I changed her mucky shift, but all the while my thoughts were in a whirlwind. I knew only one reason why women had a craving to eat coal. In my guts I had known all along this journey was not straight and proper, and now I had the proof. We were travelling for her health indeed! The whole scene was too outlandish for me to stay silent, so I spoke out boldly.
‘My Lady, Burned Toast Tea is the best of remedies if you are sick in the mornings.’
She didn’t answer, but she knew my meaning, for she slumped back on her bed and dropped her brow into her hand. When she raised her face, large tears welled in her eyes.
‘You know?’
‘I should have guessed earlier, My Lady.’ She looked up at me, quite heartbroke, grasping Bengo to her chest. The dog was wearing her newest extravagance, a silver collar that bore the words Bengo. Carinna’s heart in this four-footed thing lies. I had scoffed at that, but just then it seemed less daft than tragic.
‘I will help you any way I can, My Lady. I want to tell you that, before the others come back.’
‘Thank you, Biddy,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘I know so little of these matters, but have such a craving for black tastes. There can be no mistake can there? Look.’
She pulled back her bedcovers and I saw what I should have seen for the last month at least. There stood her belly, quite swelled beneath her fine lawn shift. She stared mournfully at it, her chin to her chest. ‘It grows so fast now. And I so often feel sick, as if some strangeness flows in my blood. Is that how it should be, Biddy?’
‘It can be, My Lady. The sickness, the heaviness.’ I sighed, trying to comprehend it all. ‘We must make haste to Italy.’
‘Yes, we must travel as fast as I can bear it.’ She flung her head back on the pillow and her eyes burned fiercely. ‘I need you, do you understand? And Mr Loveday. You do understand I can only trust the two of you?’
Tears trickled down her cheeks, so I passed her a pocket handkerchief. Then, summoning all my pluck, I asked what I longed to know, ‘Does Sir Geoffrey know, My Lady?’
She was silent for a moment, then shook her head in disgust. ‘Him? It’s nothing to do with that poxed old fool.’ She glared at me with sudden scorn. ‘What, you don’t know either? They let me find out on my wedding night. How kind was that? His nightgown fell open and the scabs on his flesh were like the scars of Hell. I couldn’t let that festering ghoul touch me. I thought I was the last to know, that he’d carried the pox for most of his life.’
I gaped at her. Yet it all rang true: Sir Geoffrey’s raddled face, his strange temper that some called crazed. No wonder she was fleeing from him.
‘But you told no one?’ I exclaimed, for she had been cruelly deceived. ‘My Lady,
anyone would pity you.’
‘What?’ she cried. ‘And would they pity me still, as my own child grows larger every day?’ She cried a little into her twisted handkerchief. ‘We parted on ill terms. He wants never to see me again. He said if I spoke of his plight he would have me divorced in parliament. So if he knew of the child as well? I needed time. And money. I needed to escape.’ She was silent for a moment and I looked away.
‘Do you think the others will write to Sir Geoffrey?’ she asked, her voice shaking like a child begging not to be whipped.
‘I can’t say, My Lady.’ I was truly flummoxed. I wanted to help her, but scarcely knew how. ‘I’ll fetch you the tea, My Lady. Now why not take some rest?’
She reached up and patted my hand. ‘Thank you, Biddy. I’m so grateful you are here.’
The truth was, her kind words had left me choked up too. Fool that I was, I would have done anything for my lady, whatever she bid me in the whole world.
* * *
I got back to the kitchen, and there I re-fashioned my lady’s sad story as best as I could.
To start at the beginning, she must have lain with some fellow in the summer, and when her monthly curses stopped, got a devilish fright. Then the rogue no doubt refused to stand up and give his name to the babe. It were mighty handy then, that she had the chance to marry Sir Geoffrey in October. I set a slice of bread on a toasting fork before the fire and charred it as black as the Earl of Hell’s boots.
Even after finding out Sir Geoffrey was poxed, I was now sure that she had never tried to poison him. My mind ran again over the ailments The Cook’s Jewel listed to be cured by Sassafras Oil and this time something chimed in the corner of my mind. I left the toast steeping in water and slipped back to my chamber. Leafing through The Cook’s Jewel I found it – ‘Menstrual Obstruction’. I was minded of an apothecary calling a woman’s curses a ‘menstres’ or some such word. What was it obstructed a woman’s monthly curses but a baby? God’s eggs, she had bought the oil to try to get rid of the baby! So she was a desperate creature indeed. By the time I first saw her at Mawton she must have been suffering all the troublesome signs of breeding. Lord, she had played her part better than an actress on the stage. In terror of being found out she had planned this journey. And no doubt fearing foreign food would make her even sicker, she had dragged me along as well.
An Appetite for Violets Page 13